


Of Songs and Dances

by Onceuponadisneypotter



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Did i write this so that it could be canon alongside my ''memories and wishes'' susan fic? maayybee, Gen, Golden Age (Narnia), Not Beta Read, Susan learns to sing from the naiads, and dance from the fauns, mention of bunnies dying but it's not described at all dont worry, not-so-veiled Bible verse references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28056144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceuponadisneypotter/pseuds/Onceuponadisneypotter
Summary: Inspired by @eeriepevensies's tumblr post:"*crashes through doorway, careens to a halt* hello susan pevensie is taught to sing by naiads and taught to dance by fauns and she carries this with her when she goes back to england and her singing and dancing is never quite like that of a human beings, her singing particularly, because the naiads learned to sing from the song aslan used to wake up narnia in the first place. goodnight. "
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Of Songs and Dances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sepiaparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepiaparrish/gifts).



Susan Helen Pevensie is only twelve years old when she becomes Queen Susan the Gentle of the Radiant Southern Sun, Lady of the Horn, the Marksman Queen. She is, by all accounts, still a child when she fights a war greater than she could have ever imagined, and she suddenly understands why her father looked so sad when the recruitment letter came. Queen Susan the Gentle is not even really a teenager when she is signing trade agreements and peace contracts, establishing new laws and rebuilding a land damaged and traumatised from a century-long war. And even though her siblings are there, and Mr and Mrs Beaver, and Mr Tumnus, and Oreius, and so many others, Queen Susan the Gentle heaved the responsibility of ruling a country on her shoulders like a youthful Atlas, feeling every gram of the weighty yoke whilst smiling her gentle smile, hiding her sorrows and traumas and eternal feeling of inadequacy from those surrounding her.

It was not to last.

It was during the preparations for the one-year anniversary of their coronation that Susan, quite literally, collapsed. Caught barely in time by one of the badgers just passing behind her to grab some water, the next thing she remembered after discussing the colours of the flower garlands for the decorations was waking up on the warm marble floor, Edmund’s face looking down at her, a look of deep concern in his eyes. Her protests that it was “just the heat, really, I am fine, I simply did not drink enough today” were waved away and, before she knew it, she was lying in bed and did not wake for the next forty-eight hours. Suddenly, her gentle nods and quiet smiles did not seem to be enough to soothe away any concerns about her mental and physical health. Where she used to be able to stay up two hours past midnight rereading a proposed law, or catching up on Calormen etiquette before the convoy arrived, or to think of a solution to the most recent problem without anyone noticing, now she was shadowed everywhere she went, forced to take regular breaks and go to bed on time. 

“What do I have to do to convince you that I’m fine?” She had burst out one day when she was followed into the garden. “Can’t you just leave me alone for five witching minutes?” 

The poor rabbit had hung his ears and quietly apologised, mumbling something about “safety” and “orders” and “for your own good”. It was that night that Susan had called for a good-old-fashioned sibling council, like they had done back in England to coordinate their parent’s birthday presents, or decide who would prepare which part of breakfast for mother’s day, or that night when Peter had heard their parents talking about the government’s plan to evacuate all children from London, to keep them safe. 

“I am doing _fine_ Peter, it was just one fainting spell.”

“You are _not_!” Peter protested. “I do not see why we did not notice it sooner, but you are staying up way too late!”

“You’re one to talk,” Susan had countered, “I have seen the lights in your room on till late at night as well.”

Peter’s face had turned as red as when their mother had caught him trying to steal cookies from the tin outside of tea-time. “That’s true, but I stay up late reading. For fun! You stay up late worrying.”

“Do you even ever do stuff just for fun?” Lucy had piped in. “You never join Mr Tumnus and me when we go out exploring, or Peter and Edmund when they take a day off to go fishing. Whenever I see you in the library you are reading something useful.”

“I do things for fun!” 

“Like what?”

“Like- I- I mean, I do _like_ reading up on etiquette rules...”

“But that is boring and useful!” Edmund had pointed out. “Everything you do for ‘fun’ is also because it is useful. You read, but only to learn more about Narnian Law and other things rulers should know about. You practice archery, but only because you know we will still face our fair share of battles. You garden, but only so you can give away the food the hungry.”

“Well then, if I find a hobby that _isn’t_ useful, will you guys leave me alone?”

And with that, Susan had picked up singing.

Back in England, Susan had sung in the Church’s choir. The conductor had oftentimes complimented her wide range, and before they had gone Dorset, before Lucy had found the wardrobe, before they had fought the White Witch and before Aslan had crowned them all Kings and Queens of Narnia, Susan had dreamt of becoming a star, singing on stages all around the world. So, the day after their sibling council, never one to waste any time, Susan had approached the naiads in the rivers near Cair Paravel, for everyone knew that their songs were the most beautiful of all of Narnia. From that day on, every morning, Queen Susan could be found on the riverbank, practising scales and learning songs, teaching the naiads old hymns and psalms in exchange for their ancient Narnian melodies. 

She was shadowed no more, and all was well.

Or, so it seemed. Because the older they grew, the heavier Susan's yoke became. The more she learned about Narnia, the more experience she had with ruling, the more she learned and fought and solved, the more she saw the nuances, the intricate political plots, the negative consequences even the tiniest of decisions could make. When six baby bunnies drowned after she had ordered a dam to be built somewhere, when an entire harvest failed and they did not have enough reserves to feed the crowds, when a civil war broke out after a carelessly drawn border, Susan realised the responsibility entrusted to her by Aslan himself was one she was inadequate for. How could she, though technically an adult at twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, but still a child, still supposed to be studying, laughing with friends in a dorm room of whichever university she would have chosen to attend, rule an entire country? How could she decide the fates of so many lives, influence the finances of so many families, order men and women more than twice her age to do her bidding? And all the whilst stay gentle, uphold peace, think through all the repercussions any of her words could have?

The daily classes had long since turned into biweekly, then weekly, then the _other_ biweekly lessons. Yet Queen Susan the Gentle made sure she attended the naiads’ practice at least twice a month, for even though during her walk to the river she worried about the budget negotiations, border patrol regulations, international trading sanctions and other such things she could be working on instead, Susan knew that the moment her voice joined that of the water spirits’, all of her fears and doubts and anxieties would fall away and make place for wonderful peace and joy, as she sang of the creation of Narnia, the adventures of the first Queen of Narnia with whom she shared a name, the beauty of the northern mountains, the sagas written by the giants... When Susan sang, there were no feelings of insufficiency, of failure, of anything negative at all. When she sang, a faint memory of something she could not quite place, of a delicious smell she could not identify, a name just slightly out of her grasp would float to the surface, and she was almost convinced that one day, if she just sang long enough, she would be able to figure out what -- or who -- it was that singing reminded her of. It was when she sang that her yoke became easy, the burden light. And it was when she danced that she could not feel it at all.

* * *

Susan was seventeen when the fauns taught her how to dance. Oh, she had danced before that, of course, during royal balls and celebrations, but those were formal dances, often slow, with dignified steps and straightened necks tight-laced dresses. Nothing like the rapid, enchanting, wild and mystical and freeing steps of the fauns’ choreography she had fallen in love with during their first visit to the Great Snow Dance in the fourth year of their reign. But this, just like her singing, was something her siblings had to talk her into. 

“Susan, you promised you would go to sleep,” Lucy had confronted her one night, when she had found her studying an ancient lawbook detailing the rights of rabbits and bunnies in certain property disputes. Susan had tried to change the topic of the conversation, tried to distract her sister with concerned inquiries about why _she_ was still awake, but it had no use. Lucy was headstrong, and had threatened to tell Peter and Edmund if she didn’t promise to let go of her Queenly duties after dinner. Susan had succeeded in doing so for three days before Lucy caught her in her bedroom figuring out the correct flowers to decorate the halls with for their upcoming feast in order not to offend anyone. Susan had tried so hard to sneak the book into her room without anyone noticing, but Lucy had hidden in one of the trees outside her window and caught her that way.

“Susan, you need to get a hobby. All this studying cannot be healthy, you are making all of us feel inadequate!” Peter had said during that night’s sibling council.

“I have a hobby!”

“Oh, one full hobby, how impressive.”

“Shut up, Edmund. I am just trying to do what is best for Narnia.”

“And you are doing great,” he had assured her. “But what is best for Narnia is not having an overworked Queen. You know we have Gazel, Bruin, Trufflefound and all the others for a reason, they are there to share their knowledge. You do not have to know everything yourself.”

“We are worried about you, Susan. We love you. Please take some time off, allow yourself some relaxation.”

“I cannot just sit still and do _nothing_.”

“Well then, join me and Tumnus tomorrow after dinner when we go look at the young fauns’ dancing lessons. It’s Tumnus’ nephew’s first time teaching!”

And so Susan had, and she had once again fallen in love with the quick steps and beating rhythm and wild chase that had enchanted her that previous winter. From then on, the fauns had taught Susan how to dance. Her hair whipping in the wind, her cheeks red-flushed, her dress hiked up, the quick succession of steps and claps and stomps and shouts never failed to make her feel alive, always allowed her to shake the weighty responsibility off of her tense shoulders, and when the dance allowed her to sing along there was nothing, _nothing_ that could steal her joy. It was a secret between her, her siblings, the fauns and the naiads, and all was well. 

All was well, until the white stag was spotted and Edmund had dragged her from her room one early morning and they had all gone out riding. All was well until they had found that tree of iron and they had ignored her pleas and they had entered the thicket. All was well until it wasn’t, until they fell out of the wardrobe they had forgotten existed, until they were thrown back into too-young bodies, back into a war-torn land, back into a world where four refugee children with their fantasy worlds and wonderful stories were looked upon with a mixture of pity and wonder. They were no Kings or Queens there, they had no large burdens to bear, no laws to draft nor treaties to sign. But the yoke of ruling is not removed lightly, and worries about how Narnia fared without them grew and grew as they remembered the unfinished business all four of them had left behind. And in this world, there were no naiad songs or faun dances to distract from the endless waves of sorrows Susan felt. 

When Susan grew older once more, her movements were different from those around her. The old beggar sitting in his spot down the street between the Pevensie’s house and the train to school could see her steps were much more graceful, much softer and quicker and lighter than any of the others who passed him during the day. The professors at her university, several years later, could barely believe that this young woman weighed down by so much grief barely seemed to touch the ground when she walked. Susan’s friends at the club begged her to show them, teach them, tell them where she learned to dance like so. And those lucky few, the small handful of people who had heard her sing, they knew that there was something more to it than just the words and melody. Those who heard her sing remembered, vaguely, the smell of their mother’s home-baked apple pie, their first cat’s fur, the scent coming from the sweater of the one they loved. Those who heard her sing could almost hear a distant roar, and taste a known yet unfamiliar name on their lips, one they can almost but not fully remember, one that started with an A? And the accidental passers-by during London’s short but oppressive summer, when all the windows are open to find some relief from the dry heat, would stop and listen and wonder, for the voice coming from that window, singing an enchanted song in words none living in England could understand, could scarcely be human. And those who listened longer would almost, _almost_ feel like they could start believing in fairy tales once again. 

**Author's Note:**

> So I had other plans for tonight but I saw that tumblr post and wrote this instead. I hope you like it! If you feel so inclined to do, check out my Susan Pevensie-centred '''memories and wishes'' fic!


End file.
